


who burned cigarette holes in their arms

by meios



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Sex, Sex and drugs as coping mechanisms, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:03:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(protesting the narcotic tobacco craze of capitalism)</p><p>There is a man doing heroin. There is a man putting a record on. There is a man spreading his legs. He is all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who burned cigarette holes in their arms

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the kill your darlings sex scene, to be honest.

There is a man doing heroin, watching as metal pierces flesh, his head a maelstrom of things that stopped making sense long ago. There is a man putting a record on, all scratches and echoing voices, the pits of hell coming forth through the song. There is a man spreading his legs for another, pressing close and then away, breathing harshly through numbed pain. He inhales and he is all of them. He exhales and the world is his stage.

 

The bed isn’t even his own. The drugs are, the track marks on his arms like roadmaps leading up to his neck, and there is no longer any flesh there, just a bruise like handprints and he can barely register having been choked by big hands, can hardly remember asking for it. His mouth is sandpaper and he opens his mouth to be taken once again.

 

On his back, he feels more at home. Taken care of, protected, cradled by drugs and nectar and sin, more threads in the sheets than in his most expensive shirt, and when filled, he feels less like leaking, more like a dam, holding back the drugs and the fluid that comprises him. Jason’s gaze is hazy as he tries to see—what, he does not know. He breathes out a haggard moan, hypersensitive and dulled, arching and flat.

 

Bruce holds him down because he asked for it. It’s hard to say no, the both of them know that. It’s harder to keep from biting at puckered skin, pink scars like razorblades, canines like wire. There’s a whisper of _harder_ and Bruce growls from far away, and Jason tips his head back, noises coming like they’re being punched from him.

 

There are tears on his face. Jason isn’t sure if it’s the drugs or the sex or both; he can’t bring himself to wipe them away, biting down on his lower lip as Bruce does, kisses them gone. Jason’s face is in the junction of his neck, lines of his own design cutting into Bruce’s skin.

 

(Back, shoulders, arms, chest. Anywhere he can find the slightest bit of leverage, anywhere that can pull him closer and push him away, lead him like puppet strings. They are entangled and loose and too tight and not enough and Jason keens, bites into Bruce’s shoulder, tastes the plasma that spills.)

 

Bruce tastes, drinks himself like wine. Nothing about the two of them is soft, gentle, okay—there is a darkness that overcomes them, a way to outdo the light, encase it and put it away. Bruce is primal in how he takes Jason, and Jason is an animal in how he takes it.

 

They are equals here.

 

Their climaxes are like how tornadoes begin: heat rises up and cold pushes down, and they are the storm that pulls the other apart, squeezes in until they can be together again. Jason is heavy here, arching, unabashed in the way he screams, hips stammering like virgins and kissing akin to saving a life.

 

Jason doesn’t argue when Bruce embraces him entirely, doesn’t say a word as he’s cleaned, as he’s pulled in and held. His tongue is leaden, his mouth like steel; he doesn’t speak and Bruce doesn’t press it, just touches with flat palms and aching veins, spreading out and taking over and Jason listens as the record skips from somewhere across the galaxy, his head quiet.


End file.
